


after death

by behindtintedglass



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 06:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12551284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/behindtintedglass
Summary: Vignettes of grief, longing, and reconciliation after The Reichenbach Fall.(All written pre-Series 3; these are now canonically AU)





	1. hope is the thing with feathers

 

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and remembers:

_The knit of his brows ( **confusion** : is he actually making all this up—no, he  _isn’t,_ that’s… real?), the shaking of his head ( **disbelief** : but  _how_ could he have known all that?), the spark in his gaze ( **amazement** : I’m standing in the presence of a genius—a real, honest-to-God, otherworldly  _genius!)_ , the widening of his eyes ( **incredulity** : then…  _why_ does he need me around when he obviously can handle everything by himself?) –_

All the little nuances of John’s vibrant and weathered face, permanently stored in his memory, permanently engraved in his heart.

He remembers, and he clings, and  _he holds on to that memory…_

And he has hope.

He opens his eyes, and he lets himself fall through the darkness awaiting him, knowing that he will never be truly consumed by the abyss, knowing that he is anchored by the light of John’s laughter, still ringing in his ears.

 

 


	2. unworthy

 

 

Moran leans forward, pressing the majority of his weight down against John’s bad shoulder, and the pain makes John wheeze.  He feels the warm, wet liquid flow from his mouth, and he watches, almost hypnotically, the crimson blood pooling on the ground before his eyes.  Moran is unmoved by the sight of the trembling war veteran below him, and his face twists into a grimace of  _disgust._

“You know, Watson, I almost felt that connection with you,” Moran says quietly. “I thought we were the same.  Here we are, two men bound by fate, willing to do anything for our master.   _Anything._ ”

His foot presses down again, and it takes John nearly all of his willpower to hold in his cry of pain.  ”My master is dead because of  _him_ , Watson.   _Dead._   My master left me behind, and now I am alone again.”  He clicks the safety lock on his pistol and aims it at John’s head. “But no matter.  I will be joining him soon.  I just have some unfinished business to attend to.  It’s my master’s last assignment to me.”  His gaze takes on a fond, almost tender look.  ”I am  _honored_ that I have his trust.”

John’s fingers curl into fists, his nails scraping the ground beneath him. “I won’t let you.”

Moran raises an eyebrow sardonically.  ”What’s that?”

“ _I won’t let you hurt him._ ”

Moran blinks.  Oddly enough, even though the rest of his body is shaking from exhaustion and abuse, the doctor’s hands are steady.

“That’s a bit unfair, isn’t it?” Moran says casually.  ”Because he’s very willing to let me hurt you.  And…”

Moran mercifully takes off his foot, and John coughs out an exhale just in time before Moran steals his breath away once more as he crouches down and whispers sweetly in his ear:

“ _He left you behind_.”

John’s head shot up at that, and Moran meets his piercing, angry glare with something akin to amusement dancing in his eyes.  ”You know,” Moran says softly. “I can kill you right here, right now, with this gun.  But why will I do something so quick, so obvious, so  _boring_?”

A small, feral smile spreads across Moran’s handsome face.  John’s eyes narrowed.

“Because that’s not  _painful_ enough, is it, Johnny-Boy?” says Moran distractedly as he drags the point of the gun along John’s hairline, and John grits his teeth at the same nickname Moran’s master used a long, long time ago.  How long ago was that?  A lifetime, perhaps?

_A lifetime without him.  When he left you behind._

“No,” Moran says softly.  ”That’s not what’s killing you right now.”

John’s breath catches in his throat.

“And I will remind you, Dr. John Watson, what  _exactly_ is killing you.  And I will remind you, over and over, until that undeniable  _truth_ will be your own personal hell here on Earth while you  _live._ ”

Moran slips his fingers under John’s chin and forces their gazes to meet.  And then… Moran smiles.

“ _ **You are never enough. And you will never be worthy of Sherlock Holmes.** ”_

 

 


	3. the good man

 

 

“John… are you genuinely chastising me… for doing the one unselfish thing I’ve done in my life?  The one time I truly tried to protect the one person who matters the most to me… and you think that’s wrong? Or is it because it’s so unexpected from a man like me?  Is it so wrong to try to be,  _just this once_ , a good man?”

“You don’t realize it do you, Sherlock?  I never needed you to be that good man.  I never needed you to be unselfish.  You wouldn’t… you wouldn’t have needed to prove it if… if I hadn’t failed you.  If I had been there… with you… to save you… you wouldn’t have needed to be a good man.   _That should’ve been me_.   ** _I_**  should’ve been that good man.  I should’ve been the one you depended on, the one you’d count on to be with you every step of the way.  And in that final step, over the falls…  _I failed you_.   ** _I failed you, Sherlock_**.”

“I never needed you to save me, John.  I just needed you alive.”

“DAMN IT, SHERLOCK, I NEEDED YOU ALIVE TOO, AND YOU MADE ME BELIEVE YOU WERE  ** _DEAD_**!”

 

 


	4. waiting for an answer

 

 

“You look different,” John whispers.

“Do I?” Sherlock asks softly.  "Does it matter?“

With trembling fingers, John reaches out to touch Sherlock’s hair, which are slightly lighter-colored at the tips, where Sherlock has dyed them ginger.

"What have these three years done to you?” John quietly says.

Sherlock curls his fingers around John’s wrist and gently lowers his hand until John’s palm is pressing against the side of his cheek.

“It made me yearn for you more,” Sherlock answers sincerely.

Something painful and warm flutters in John’s chest, and he can’t help the small, sad smile that blooms across his face.  Sherlock leans forward tentatively and lets his lips brush the corner of John’s mouth.  John swallows at the tender gesture, a question all on its own.

Sherlock’s fingers are questing, relearning the odd lines and wrinkles on John’s face.  "Will you let me make up for lost time?“

John’s breath hitches.  "There are a lot of things I still don’t understand,” he struggles to say, “And… I’m not sure if things can go back the way it used to, between us.”

Sherlock looks at him, watches the sandy eyelashes that hide the blue eyes he hasn’t seen for so long, the blue eyes he has anchored himself to in his mind, all those years, and Sherlock suddenly knows for certain… he cannot have anything less than  _everything_.  Not after depriving himself for so long.

“We surely can’t go back,” Sherlock murmurs.  "But we can always move forward _._ “ 

 

 


	5. discordant symphony

 

 

 _I_ _will play you, Sherlock Holmes.  I will play you, and you will cry out for me, you will sing for me, and together we will make the sweetest, most decadent music together, the notes and scales and arpeggios of your dark, disturbed heart, until I have wrung out all the pieces and measures and your heart is no more, no more, no more, and there is nothing left but you and me in the silence.  And I am all that you will know.  And I am all you will ever need._

**_Surrender to me, Sherlock Holmes.  And I will play you._ **

 

* * *

 

_There is a part of me that is fighting, struggling, clawing to get out, a part of me that’s flashing all the warning signs that this is all wrong, wrong, wrong._

_I want to scream.  I feel so open, exposed, violated_ …  _and he hasn’t even touched me yet._

_A part of me is repulsed.  Disgusted.  Ashamed._

_Afraid._

_And yet…_

_A part of me… wants to know the answer.  It is the unknown that seduces me the most after all._

_And I don’t know what I will sound like… if he will play me._

_Will the sounds that will burst out of my throat as he will slowly stroke me and tenderly saw through my skin be dissonant chords that pierce through the unified music of the orchestra of this mad, mundane world…_

_Or will the sounds, in fact, form an operatic masterpiece this ignorant world has yet to hear?  Will there be, in fact, a standing ovation at the end, the applause and the spotlight we both crave so desperately?_

_I wait as he positions the bow.  I want to scream.  Everything is so quiet.  So still.  So lifeless._

_Even inside my own mind._

_For once… the monsters inside my mind are… silent._

**_It feels so very dangerous to be this vulnerable._ **

**_I have… never felt more alive._ **

 

 


	6. almost

 

 

Nowadays, Sherlock turns around to remind himself of what he has almost lost.  And he is thankful every second, every minute, every hour of every day, that John is still here, that he still hasn’t left, that he has somehow forgiven Sherlock even before Sherlock has thought of asking for it, even though Sherlock knows he probably doesn’t deserve this redemption, this second chance, this blessing. 

And John looks back at him with a wry smile, his blue eyes alive with mirth and affection and boundless love, and tells him:  _“Idiot_.”

And Sherlock knows he’s really saying:  _I’m not going anywhere._

_Not without you._

 

 


	7. my immortal

 

 

The blue in his eyes has faded into grey, in the same shade as  _his_ eyes.

Only… it is not because his eyes has taken on the bright, blinding light that sears through every crime scene and every lie and every disguise and everything that has always been  _wrong_ this world–

 _(Everything is wrong now._ **_Everything._** )

No… it is precisely the opposite.  It is because now, with  _him_ gone… there is no life left in his own eyes.  The ocean of his eyes has been polluted with the visions of everything he could’ve done, everything he  _should’ve_ done _,_ and the sky of his eyes has been covered with storm clouds of tears that he has no right to shed, not when he can’t reveal to the world how much of a fucking hopeless lifeless coward he is, who can’t even  _protect–_

It is a blessing he doesn’t deserve, he thinks, the way he hasn’t been there to watch the life go out of  _his_ eyes, in the same way  _he_ will not be able to see the life go out of his own eyes (now that  _he_ is gone), because he wants to remember the way the light in  _his_ eyes has always shone brighter than even the millions of stars in the desert sky, because he wants  _him_ to remember the blue waves of laughter and giggles at crime scenes that he has always allowed himself to be submerged under.

Now… those waves of pure, unadulterated happiness is gone, replaced by the nothingness and bleakness of grey.  It is that grey that haunts him, the grey that reminds him, because  _he_ is all he ever sees anymore.  And somehow, that is a bitter, painful comfort, like the haze of a drug-induced slumber, to know that in his eyes…  _he_ will always be here. There.  _Everywhere._

And on the radio, the sad notes of a violin…

_“But though you’re still with me, I’ve been alone all along.”_

 

 


	8. message send failure

 

 

He has whipped out his phone before he even knows what he’s doing.

_Take care of him._

_\- SH_

He has already sent the message before he taps out an afterthought.

_Please._

_\- SH_

Seconds later, his phone chimes.

_Already picked him up.  Have been following him since he left Baker Street._

_\- MH_

And before he can even draw the breath to think of a reply, it seems that his brother also has more to say.

_He’s crying.  I don’t know what to do._

_\- MH_

There is anger in that message.  And desperation.  And remorse.  And most of all–there is  _guilt_.  The words blur in his vision, and with trembling fingers, he wipes the tears that have dropped on the screen of his phone. 

_Neither do I._

_\- SH_

He never sends that last message.

 

 


	9. always

 

 

Dazedly, Sherlock walks on shaky legs towards the edge and looks down… down… down.  
  
“Of all the times you chose not to follow my instructions,” he whispers into the cold night air. ”Why did it have to be now.”  
  
The phone slips out of his unfeeling fingers and clatters onto the floor.  
  
“It was supposed to be me.” He falls to his knees. ”It was supposed to be  _me._ ”  
  
In the darkness, the screen lights up, revealing the final text message:  
  
–

_I_ _’m sorry. But I can’t let him burn your heart._

_Your friend,_

_(Always)_

_John_

_–_

 

 


	10. only fools rush in

 

 

You stand on the rooftop, swaying over the edge, your coat billowing in the wind, and you remember the feeling of his hand in yours. You can still feel the lingering humanity of the contact, the intimacy of it, the feeling of comfort and safety it brought despite the high and fear and thrill of the chase.

 _He’s with me, he’s bound to me, he’s never letting me go,_ you remember thinking then.  Was that just last night?  It feels like such a lifetime ago.

And now you’re going to have to be the one to sever the chain that links you to him.  The chain that links your heart to his.

The world has never seemed as cruel as it does now.

“No, stay where you are!” you cry out, and you can’t quite keep your voice from breaking.

“Okay,” his voice on the line cracks, and you pretend it’s because of the awful signal, and not because you’ve permanently stored into your hard drive all the telltale signs of John Watson breaking.

You can almost laugh at the bitter irony that you’re going to have to induce more of those signs.  And you know exactly how to do it.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” you whisper brokenly.  "Please… will you do this for me?“

You reach out a hand to him, and even from this far, you can see John – brilliant, amazing, impossible John, warm and soft and lethal and vulnerable – reach his hand out to you.

” _Take my hand_ ,“ a song suddenly plays in your head.  ” _Take my whole life too. For I can’t help falling–_ _“_

Furiously you delete the song from your memory.  Now is not the time.  Not when you can still clearly remember how he has grabbed you close, with only steel railings separating him from you; not when you can still clearly remember him breathing heavily and gazing hungrily into your eyes, adrenaline and desire coursing through both of your veins, your fingers interlocking above you as your wrists clang together through the handcuffs; not when you can still clearly remember how you could have easily bridged that painfully short distance and claimed his lips with yours, the way you have always dreamed of doing, kissing him as if you’re dying, kissing him as if for the last time–

 _No,_ you tell yourself savagely.   _This will not be the last time._

"Sherlock,” he whispers your name brokenly, and your heart shatters.

 

 


	11. distance

 

 

Sherlock carefully counts his steps, carefully keeps his gait steady, carefully maintains that respectful distance, for it is all he can do not to reach out and crush the smaller man to him and breathe him in.  He needs to see, to touch, to hold, to smell, to taste, to  _feel_ John again, with an intensity so painful it’s almost blinding.

But he knows that he’s treading on fragile ground, and he can’t risk breaking this.  There is so much yet to know, to explain, to remember.  To forgive.

He blinks when the man in front of him suddenly stops.  John turns around, and Sherlock’s heart starts to hammer against his chest when he sees those achingly familiar blue eyes suddenly harden.  He actually visibly  _sees_  John gather and steel himself into what Sherlock privately calls John’s “soldier mode.”  Slowly, John begins approaching him, and Sherlock suddenly feels inexplicably afraid.  Not of John, never of John, but… Sherlock is terrified that will happen next might break him.

He sees John’s hand move.  And for a horrifying split second, Sherlock is completely expecting John to hit him.

 _I’ll deserve it_ , he thinks desperately a split second later, as he braces himself.

Instead… he feels stubby, weathered, hesitant fingers threading themselves through his.

“We’ve been apart for so long,” John murmurs as he rubs his callused thumb ( _his trigger hand_ , Sherlock’s mind automatically supplies for him) over Sherlock’s emaciated fingers.  "Don’t… don’t keep your distance now.“

Briefly, Sherlock wonders if this is what it feels like to drown.

He gulps in a deep lungful of air as he closes that distance and steps forward.  He leans close and buries his nose into the smaller man’s sandy hair and inhales and simply  _holds on._

In response, John’s other hand comes up and clutches tightly at Sherlock’s coat. "Don’t ever leave me again,” John whispers.  " _Please._ “

 _If this is what it feels like to drown,_  Sherlock thinks desperately.   _I don’t ever want to be saved._

"I won’t,” Sherlock whispers, his lips caressing the wrinkles on John’s forehead, which crinkle as John smiles.  "I won’t.“

 

 


End file.
